


Trust Issues

by beadedslipper



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John and Harold's emotions are showing, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beadedslipper/pseuds/beadedslipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having trouble staying patient when Harold continues to keep him at arm's length.  Harold notices and tries to help.  Things come to a head in ways neither of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Issues

**Author's Note:**

> I am - not sure about this one. I needed to work through my feelings about Harold's continued reticence despite how close he and John are. I hope this seemed in-character. It's a bit of a balancing act, letting them talk about their issues without changing who they are. I hope it worked.

“I’m a very private person Mr. Reese.”

John sighed as Finch’s mantra echoed through his earpiece once again.  Another day, another failed attempt to get to know his elusive employer.

Reese couldn’t really blame Finch for being a closed book, even if a little more transparency could have simplified a few situations earlier in their partnership.  Unfortunately, with the kind of information and resources Harold Finch had, well, discretion really was the better part of valor.

Of course, in most relationships, time and trust were directly related.  The more time that John spent with Finch, the more times that Finch somehow, impossibly, came through, the more that John trusted him, relied on him for direction and equilibrium.  Not so with Harold.  Despite everything they had been through, Harold was still largely unknowable and John couldn’t blame anyone but himself. 

At first, for all his finesse and vaunted training, Reese had gone about learning about Finch with the delicacy of a sledgehammer.  Their every conversation was a dizzy dance as Reese tried to ferret out something, any nugget about the man who had stopped him from a slow death at the bottom of a bottle.  Reese teased and pried and Harold remained unmoved.  No wonder the man saw an inquiry about breakfast choices as the gateway to some terrible truth.

He had stopped pushing for information not long after the Grace incident.  It wasn’t guilt.  Harold professed to know everything about John and he did know an alarming lot.  John was only trying to even the playing field.

So, not guilt.  Rather, he had gotten to know Harold by then.  He might not know a lot of hard facts about the man, where he was born, what his mother’s name was, which of the 57 flavors of ice cream was his favorite – but he knew Harold.

Harold was a good man.  A good friend.  If his good friend wished to remain largely a mystery, John could only do his best to respect that.

Now however, with more time and less distance than ever between them, understanding, patience, were getting harder and harder to come by.

After those tense days under Agent Donnelly’s tender care, after those fraught final moments on the rooftop, Kara’s handiwork counting down to not only his death, but also, horribly, Finch’s, Reese had been under the impression that something had finally shifted between them.

As in so many things, he was apparently mistaken.

Of course, for John, things had changed the moment Root’s true identity had been revealed.  The knowledge that Harold had been taken, was likely being tortured, and Reese had no idea where to find him, had forced John to confront some truths that he had been avoiding.

Specifically, the truth that he was very quickly coming to care for his boss far more than was acceptable, even for friends who saw only each other most days of the week.

More specifically, the truth that he was very likely in love with the man known as Harold Finch.

He got Finch back and, though there seemed to be an uptick in the amount of vulnerability Harold was willing to show him, not much else changed.

John never asked for more, couldn’t in good conscience, not after everything Finch had given and done for him.  It was all at Harold’s discretion.  Harold’s way or no way at all.

John was completely fine with this arrangement, right up until he wasn’t.  Now, when John asked Harold a personal question and was summarily rebuffed, it had begun to sting.  To care so much about a person and have repeated confirmation that they didn’t trust you with their secrets was difficult.

Of course, John would make sure that Harold never knew.  He was exceptionally good at sublimating.  It was the only way he’d gotten through sex with Kara after all.

There was absolutely no way Finch would ever know how John felt or the pain that he caused when he kept his secrets from John.

Absolutely.

\---

Harold Finch was a very smart man.  That was perhaps an understatement, but it was true nonetheless.  However, intelligence did not necessarily equate to perception, particularly with respect to the subtle tells of the very few humans he interacted with.

However, when two people spend enough time with one another, it’s inevitable that certain personal cues of mood and satisfaction become familiar.

Even a person as oblivious as Harold couldn’t fail to notice how quiet Mr. Reese had become lately.

Harold’s first instinct was to attribute it to their most recent number.  Reese was often subdued after a mission, particularly one where a good person had been put in a position where they felt forced to do bad things.

However, when Reese’s reticence continued into the next day, and then the next week, Harold was forced to reevaluate.

“Mr. Reese, is something the matter?”

John barely looked up from where he was stoically cleaning his favored handgun.  That poor gun had received the same attention three additional times in the last four days.  It would wear away if Reese kept at it.

“I’m fine Finch.” Reese replied.  And he did sound fine.  Almost.  His voice was the same low rasp as it ever was.  However, he was missing the quiet lilt of humor that normally permeated their conversations.  Reese couldn’t seem to speak to Finch, at least when they were alone and not working, without that touch of teasing to his tone.

Harold took a careful inventory, assessing Reese the way he would a computer that was malfunctioning.  The tension in his broad shoulders was a wire whose insulation was worn too far away.  The grit to his jaw was a cracked casing.  The rigidity of his hands was a capacitor minutes away from meltdown.

Harold pushed himself away from the desk, turning in his chair to face John squarely.

“Mr. Reese, I know our work can often be distressing.  I encourage you to talk about anything that’s bothering you to avoid distraction in the field and a potentially catastrophic outcome.  I’m happy to listen if you want to talk.  If you don’t want to talk to me, I’m sure Detectives Fusco or Carter could lend a willing ear.  Or I can put you in touch with a discreet office who will be well compensated to encourage absolute secrecy – “

John cut him off, looking up at him guardedly now.  “It’s nothing Finch.  It won’t interfere.  I’m dealing with it.”

Finch frowned.  “Dealing with what, exactly?”

Reese’s mouth was a thin line.  “In this case I think I’ll take a play from your book and just say ‘I’m a very private person.’”

Harold’s brows approached his hairline at the tinge of bitterness and hurt in John’s voice.  Anyone who didn’t know him so well, who didn’t have the constant sound of his voice in their ear on a daily basis, wouldn’t have noticed it.  But Harold did.  He reevaluated once more.  There was nothing outside their lives in quiet vigilantism that was causing Reese such distress.  It was, in fact, Harold himself.

Before Harold could respond John sighed.  “Sorry.  That was a cheap shot.  I’m not myself today.  Don’t worry about it.  I’ll get it under control before the next number.”

“Your current disquiet seems to be my fault.” Harold leaned forward earnestly.  “As I caused it, I must insist you allow me to help.”

Harold was always eager to assist Reese in any way, not least because the man asked for so little for himself.  Guns and cash yes, but they were necessary for his job.  The majority of the exorbitant wages that Harold was happy to pay went to aid Reese’s old squatting grounds and other homeless encampments around the city.  For himself John was entirely low maintenance.  If he needed this now, needed to talk, or even yell at Harold, Harold would happily indulge him.  Together they would lance the wound and correct the imbalance in their lives.

Reese, on the other hand, was looking less defensive and more weary now.  “You don’t need to do this.  I’m being stupid.  I can handle this on my own.”

Harold shook his head, scooting forward slightly.  “You’re many things Mr. Reese, but stupid is not one of them.  I insist you let me help.”

John sighed, absently rubbing Bear’s head where he had come over in the hopes of attention now that both men were looking up from their work.

“Harold, would you say you trust me?”

Harold was genuinely shocked.  “Of course I trust you Mr. Reese.  The number of times you’ve saved my life, the number of times both of our lives and the lives of others have depended on you are almost beyond counting.”

“Pretty sure your Machine could count them Finch.”

Harold flapped a hand. “You have shown yourself to be eminently worthy and capable.  Is that what’s been bothering you, because we can put that problem to rest right now.”  John’s eyes were intent as Harold spoke.  “In fact, I’m slightly stunned this is even a question.  Have I done something to suggest that I don’t trust you Mr. Reese?”

The brief flicker of John’s eyes was subtle, but noticeable.  He recovered quickly, shaking his head.  “Really, just ignore it Finch.  I understood the terms of the job when I took it.”

Suddenly frustrated at all of John’s evasion, Harold blurted, “Oh just tell me for goodness sakes.”

John stiffened, his eyes flashing with a truth Harold suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.  “Right.  You want answers and I get to give them.”  The hurt was back in John’s voice, almost masked by his frustration.

Oh this was going to be bad.

“That’s the whole problem isn’t it?  You ask and I answer and that’s the way the information flows.  Every scrap I know about you I’ve had to beg for and I still only get it because you allow it.”  John’s hands turned into fists in his lap and he held himself terribly rigid.  “God forbid my closest friend actually tell me anything about himself.”

Harold was stunned, then guilty.  When they first started working together, Harold had waited for this conversation, for the impatience to grow in John just like it had in Dillinger and all the others.  But, rather than growing frustrated, John seemed to adjust to the status quo.  John had done such a good job of appearing content that now Harold was unprepared, particularly since John was right.  Still.

“You said yourself you knew the score when you met me.  What changed?  What is it you want?”

“God.” John ran a hand through his hair, mussing it.  “Fine, you want to do this.  Let’s do this.  Why didn’t you answer me after wrapping up Donald Rubio last week?”

Harold’s hands fluttered in his lap.  “You – asked me a question I didn’t feel I could answer Mr. Reese.”

“I was at a carnival after handcuffing out latest number to a tent pole.  I asked you if you liked funnel cake.  What was I going to get from an answer to that question Harold?”

Harold opened his mouth, but now that John had been given the opportunity to speak, he was going to take it.

“More importantly, even assuming I could get some minute nugget of information based on your preference for or against fried dough, why is that still a problem?  The only thing I can think is that you _don’t_ trust me as much as you say you do.  What am I to you really Finch?  A friend?  Or a weapon?”

Harold made a pained noise.  John shut his mouth.  Both of them were silent.  John was gritting his teeth and glaring at the floor, stewing.  Harold was only extremely distressed. 

Looking back now, he could understand acutely how things had built up and Reese had been led to think that Harold held their partnership in such lukewarm regard.  He had mistakenly thought John secure in their relationship, in his new life doing work that both spoke to his skills and fulfilled his soul.  He had thought John as happy and content in their partnership as he himself was.  What a fool he’d been.

Worse, his own inaction had hurt John, who he held dearer than his own life.  Harold would never compromise their working relationship by admitting such a thing out loud, but over their years together, working closely with Mr. Reese in his quiet competency, sharing dinners and receiving offerings of donuts and sencha green tea, Harold’s friendly affection for Reese had blossomed into a steady and enduring love.

Harold would never have burdened Reese with his affections, but he _would_ now rectify this miscommunication posthaste.  John would know how much he was valued if Harold had anything to say about it.

When he spoke, he kept his gaze to the floor, unable to look at John.  “You’re right of course.  I haven’t been fair to you.  I truly never meant to hurt you.  As you know, at first I was attempting to protect myself.  But that is no longer a valid reason.  If you’d wished to hurt me in any way, you could have done it long before now.  In fact, you’ve long since proven that you will go to great lengths to prevent me from being hurt in any way.  I’m more grateful than you know, which will change, now.”

He kicked out with his feet and rolled the chair across the room to a large filing cabinet.  He unlocked the bottom drawer with a key he took from his breast pocket.  He then extracted a one-inch thick manila folder and turned back to John, staring at it for a moment before extending his hand.

John stood and approached Harold, stopping within arm’s reach.  He accepted the folder slowly, flipping it open to see a faded picture of a young boy with glasses.  It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.

“If it’s any consolation, I have been preparing that folder with you specifically in mind for several months now.”

The folder was thick with papers underneath the picture.  At a quick glance John could see part of a street address and a birth date.

He flipped the folder shut.

Finch’s brow was furrowed.  “Mr. Reese?”

John placed the folder back on Harold’s lap.  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.  “That’s not – I don’t want you to – I don’t need to know your secrets Finch.  Not all at once and especially not from a folder.  I just want – “

Harold blinked, watching John struggle.  “What is it you want Mr. Reese?”

Harold could see John fighting against the words.  He was chewing the inside of his own cheek in an attempt to respect Harold’s privacy and Harold felt a rush of affection for him.

“John,” Harold reached out and brushed the very tips of his fingers across the back of John’s stiff hand.  John’s head snapped down so he could look at Harold with wide eyes.

“I want you to _want_ to tell me about yourself.” John took a shuddering breath.  “It’s – difficult to have someone you care about keep pushing you away.”

John’s eyes were bright with apprehension.  For once in his life, Harold didn’t hesitate.  He didn’t weigh the options or make mental lists of pros and cons and plans for damage control.  He responded immediately, wanted to clear that fear from John’s eyes as fast as humanly possible.

“I’m sorry John.  It’s still difficult for me to be open with people.  Even if I care for them.  Very much.”  Harold hoped that his words conveyed his sincerity and that John was his usual perceptive self and understood what Harold was actually saying.

Apparently the message came through loud and clear because John’s eyes lit up so that Harold’s breath caught in his throat. 

Within one breath and the next John had swooped down to meet Harold’s lips and oh – this is what Harold had been missing for so many months.

“That’s the only kind of honesty I need.” John whispered.  Harold almost sobbed in relief, melting into John’s kiss.  As his fingers laced behind John’s neck, digging greedily into the exposed skin below his collar, Harold cursed his own absentmindedness for keeping them from this for so long.

“I can hear you thinking Finch.” John rumbled, his lips brushing against Harold’s in a thoroughly distracting way.  “Now would be the time to turn that big brain off for a few minutes.”

Harold ran his hand from John’s nape, down over the skin exposed at his collar, letting his nails scrape the sensitive skin over John’s clavicle.  John shuddered in Harold’s arms, his eyes at half mast in pleasure.  “As you say Mr. Reese.”

John growled and attacked Harold’s mouth with renewed fervor, apparently determined to steal Harold’s breath.

It was very effective.

When they finally broke apart, both significantly more rumpled than moments before, both of their chests were heaving and Harold felt foggy with desire.  His eyes swept hungrily over John, taking in his disrupted hairstyle, swollen lips, and the fact that another button on his shirt had come undone somewhere in the frenzy.  It was a thoroughly delectable picture.

With something like mischief, Harold spoke, a twinkle in his eyes.  “I am inordinately fond of funnel cake Mr. Reese.”

John’s smile was infectious and lit up Harold’s world.  “Then maybe we should go get some.”


End file.
